I feel things, then feel them more. In other words, you can say I feel so much… that I’m sensitive. Or that I catch feelings rather easily.
But trust me, you won’t know. Here is the thing, I’m one of those guys who hides things inside. I don’t project it on the outside, I just get to feel it tightening in my gut. I mean, I do, sometimes I’m really vocal about it with people.
But, you see, I hate burdening people with my feelings. I know we all have similar problems, somehow… perhaps if not a bit different — all our problems can be rooted from the struggle with identity and belonging, and desire.
Well, I’d rather face mine alone, and maybe hint a few to anyone when I feel like I really need closure, or just communion and ‘local therapy’ (just like what I’m doing right now while writing this).
I guess that’s why I write; ’cause I feel too much, and there’s nowhere else to throw it all out, unscripted, and vulnerably.
Writing serves as an outlet for me. It’s like I’m opening myself bare, ripping myself apart, and I get to see the insides, while I let the rage inside escape through the words on the empty draft — but with honesty, and truth.
It’s like therapy, only that I get to do the talking… the writing, all by myself. And then blast what I’ve written on the depths of internet where anyone can see me raw.
When I feel something, and I feel I need to let it out, I smash my bleeding heart on the keyboard with rage. I write it all out — and as much as writing involves solitary confinement, and focus, and extensive editing, and pressure and doubt, it’s freeing, in the end. The satisfaction comes, at last. The fulfillment beams in you.
But that’s just the beginning. ‘Cause you just wrote it… It’s done; you said your truth, and sent it out there, to the world.
Unfortunately, a new question emerges:
“will they judge me, and criticize me good? Perhaps, I didn’t write it well?”
And you wait… You wait for the world to say something… just anything. At least they just acknowledge they’ve read it, right? But it will be much better if they relate, right?
So you wait… Until there’s a whisper, or rustling…
At times, there you are, thinking if you just write it all down, then you’d have let it out; and all will be bare. Free, at last.
But once you do it, all you do is think whether you captured it right… You go through it one more time (the tenth time). You reread. You think. You search within and see if maybe you left anything inside — if there’s any stone left unturned.
It’s lonely, at times. No, it’s consuming. That’s what it feels like. And you’re just there, staring at the draft, pondering, wondering, trying to feel whether you’re feeling it right.
Don’t we all feel that way? I mean, when it comes to ripping yourself open, and laying yourself bare; open for scrutiny, and criticism?
But it’s all feelings, right? It’s the fuel which keeps us running… keeps us burning inside. We desire. We love. We care. We seek.
It’s all feelings. These elsusive, yet so instense and frightening. That’s all we have to take us through moments.
‘Cause moments is all we have. It’s all we seem to have. It’s what defines us — this cosmic vacum between life and death.
This is one… this right here, right now, as I’m writing this post, is definitely a moment. Anything could happen next after I’m done with this post. To you. Me. Anything could happen. I could sink back into my hole, and just think more, feel more. And you? You could just go on with your life and forget that you even came across a post like this.
It’s life, right?
Anyways, our life is a series of moments. Each one a journey to somewhere, to something, to someone. It’s all moments, all gathering towards whatever crap we face, and what we seem to term as life.